Clear
by Afalstein
Summary: Collection of One-Shots, Amon and Robin on the run. New Chapter: Amon wonders why it bothers him.
1. Clear

She was sleeping now. For the moment, that was good enough. He didn't want to think about later.

But he didn't really have a choice, and if he just sat here in the dark, guarding the dark hump that was Robin, watching it rise and fall with her breath, nothing would get done. Besides, it would better to get things thought out now, before morning came and he had no time for it.

So he was thinking.

Things had seemed so much clearer in the factory. Strange, perhaps, given they were running and dodging and scrambling for their lives, but action had always been Amon's element. And, of course, there had been Robin…

Robin… Amon's eyes hardened slightly and blinked over at the young girl again, where she lay in a heap, sprawled on the grass. He supposed she must be pretty tired after everything she had been through. Burning your way through fifty feet of concrete had a way of exhausting a person.

Not that he would know.

Still, the way she had blasted their way to safety, punched out a hole in the wall as the entire building came crashing down… Amon wasn't sure how to describe it. It was almost unreal, like a dream or some kind of bad hallucination. You couldn't believe what you were seeing, and yet there was no denying what had been seen. It wasn't hard to see she had used up her last reserves, but the sheer scope of those reserves was frightening.

And that wasn't the only thing. As Robin had collapsed backward, as he and Karasuma grabbed and held her back from falling, the hunters had looked at each other, and without saying a word, knew what had to be done.

No other course was possible. Robin had to disappear. Amon too, to keep an eye on her. Karasuma had to ensure that everyone believed it. Solomon would simply not permit someone to have that much power.

Amon wasn't sure himself if it was such a great idea.

The grass rustled slightly as Robin stirred and sighed in her sleep. Amon's eyes flickered over her for a moment, then returned to the forest. Back and forth went his eyes.

Yes, everything had been clear in the Factory. Get Robin out. Pretend to be dead. Get as far away as you can. Hide, and set her down in a safe place.

Now? Not so clear.

They were not nearly as far from the Factory as Amon would like. Robin had still been too weak, and he was still feeling some affects from the Orbo. But that did not concern him. He was not thinking about the past, nor even about the present. He was thinking about the future.

They would have to get out of Tokyo. Possibly out of Japan. They would probably need new names, and funds. They would need to avoid the Solomon network at all costs, and definitely avoid any unusual event that would bring attention to them.

But what would they do, exactly?

Amon looked down again. Red hair, closed eyes, mouth slowly hissing breath in and out. A little over fifteen, naïve, innocent, and devout. Beautiful, too, he supposed. The Devil's Child. The one who would bring the awakening of the witches, and return them to the gods.

The child named Hope.

Amon closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. Witches are evil. They must be hunted. This had been his mantra, his guiding purpose. He had not bothered with any kind of faith or principle.

He had not been blind. He had seen witches, good witches, witches tired of life, and others who did not even want their powers. Some he had let go. Most he had not. But still, there were always more, ones who reigned over others with their powers, or manipulated others, or fulfilled petty desires.

Witches who were evil

And he hunted them.

In a way, he supposed, he would still be doing that. But in a very, very different way, and with very, very high stakes.

He would be traveling with the most powerful witch in the world, walking side by side with a… a… child. One with the ability to vaporize him in an instant if she felt like it. All as insurance, that if her power turned to evil, that he would be there to kill her.

As if he could even get a shot at her.

And this was what truly worried him, what almost… really frightened him, he supposed. That this girl, with all this power, trusted him to do this. Even placed her life in his hands. _If you truly believe_ She had said. _ That I have become too dangerous, and that I have truly become a witch, then you may shoot me. I will not resist. _

Amon's breath hissed through his teeth, and he stared hard at Robin. She would have done it too. He had seen it in her eyes. Doujima would have protected her. Nagira had taken some hits for her. But she herself…?

Not a thing. She trusted him. And that scared him. Scared him, because what would happen if he made the wrong decision? Perhaps the world would die. Perhaps she would. Perhaps he would be too late, and he would die, because she no longer trusted him.

One thing was clear. He was her watchdog now. Whether to defend her, or destroy her, he was not sure, but he definitely needed to watch her.

And, he reminded himself fiercely as he watched the dark hump move up and down, he could not become attached to her. He must remain impartial. If the moment ever came, and she became evil, he would have to kill her.

And he could hardly do that if he fell in love with her.

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah, so I'm completely new to this section. Might continue this, but I really hope not, cause goodness knows I have way too many projects that need to be worked on already.

Oh, and I don't recall Robin's exact words to Amon, even though I saw the episode just yesterday. If anyone wants to correct me, go ahead.

"Amon y Robin," the cover, was drawn by NekoMelchiah


	2. Dizzy

Robin could never remember much about the first few weeks. For her, still exhausted from overuse of her craft, they were a unending blur of sleeping and running.

Each cycle—they could hardly be called days, time was so meaningless—started the same, with a grip on her shoulder. Always, she would awaken instantly, rise, and walk with the guardian out the door. She had no need to pack—they had nothing—nor to dress—she slept in her clothes—nor even to wash—there was no point.

Meals were a collection of box lunches and vending-machine snacks that the guardian handed to her as they ran. Perhaps for hours they would run, down dark streets and indistinct tunnels that Robin neither recognized nor even noticed. They never saw any threat, but it did not matter, for they lay under a shapeless dread of detection.

Then, they would reach the resting place—whether a hotel, or a homeless shelter, or the hold of a ship, it made no difference to her—and she would lay down to sleep, only to awaken when the hand gripped her shoulder again.

How long this went on she could never say, but eventually the times of running became more distinct, the alleys gained personality again. She began herself to observe, and take precautions as they ran, not simply hang onto Amon's arm and stumble along the city streets. The box lunches became fried rice, fortune cookies, and occasionally sushi.

And her guardian became distinct too. In a way he always had been, but now she began to notice things—how he chose each resting place with care, the way his eyes constantly darted back and forth, the fact that he continually had one hand under his coat. She noticed the sound of his firm step and his heavy breathing.

And there were other things that she noticed, that perhaps even he did not. She saw how he slowed when she stumbled, how he laid his coat under her head when they rested in an alley or cargo hold. She noticed that her box lunch always seemed to have more than his, and she noticed how they always went to hotels when she seemed tired.

And then, finally, there came a day when she awoke with the sun gleaming in her eyes. There was no hand that startled her into waking, no hurried rush out the door. Her guardian sat in a rough chair at the other side of the room, slumped over in sleep, one hand on his gun. Robin's mouth quirked in a smile, somehow she had imagined him like that.

She washed, for the first time in weeks, and dressed herself, and when she finally stepped out, she saw her guardian awake in his chair, apparently annoyed with himself for having slept.

He glanced at her as she emerged. "You're awake." He commented, and Robin thought she saw just a hint of satisfaction.

* * *

**A/N:** REVIEW PLEASE! It really helps! I had so many requests to continue, I actually hauled myself off my lazy butt and did this thing!

Yay for me. Here you have some more, this time from Robin's point of view. This started out as something about how good Amon was at hiding, but it turned into something just as cool, so I thought I should submit it. Stick around, I have one or two more in the works


	3. Shadow and Flame

**Shadow and Flame**

Solomon was looking for them. Amon had no doubt about that. Even if Karasuma kept her promise, they would never simply accept such a simple explanation. Of course, with luck, she wouldn't have even told anyone about the whole "ascension to the gods" thing, but even so, Solomon knew her to be immensely powerful. They were looking for her, and him, if they knew. And nobody had more eyes than Solomon.

Amon rarely ran from his enemies, but he had often hidden. And for most of his life, he had been the greatest hunter of them all. No one knew better how to dodge the net he had helped to spread. And what was more, no one was better prepared.

Amon had never been a fool. He knew (or had known) Director Zaizen, and knew that he might become a target himself someday; so he had prepared resources, ones that neither Solomon nor Zaizen knew of. He had safehouses, equipment stashes, hidden bank accounts and deposits that not even Solomon could track. He had false passports readied for several countries, and friends in all quarters who could help. Amon did not hide in the city, the city hid him.

It would have been easier, however, to do it without Robin. All his preparations had been for himself, he had never planned to be fleeing with a partner. He had no passport readied, and not all his friends could be… trusted with her. Some of the safehouses he had prepared would not even hold two people.

Annoying, Amon reflected, that the reason he needed most to hide from Solomon was the one reason he was likely to be found. No one looked twice at Amon's dark hair and brooding face, he was merely one of a thousand in the streets. Robin, with her fiery hair and… well, herself, turned heads no matter how hard she tried to blend in. Once, Amon even had to fight off some thugs who were thinking to… well, he wasn't sure what they had been thinking, but by the end they weren't thinking it anymore.

They tried several things. She dyed her hair once, and Amon got some weathered, beaten coats that made them much less noticeable. She gave up that ridiculous hair style, too, though her hair still looked out of place.

In a way, though, it made the whole thing more thrilling. Amon had prepared his whole life for a race like this, and now that it had come, Robin just added an extra challenge to the great race. He had to be more inventive, make up new excuses, new paths where they would be less noticed.

And, he observed to himself one night as he sat by the window, watching the people passing, her presence had protected him from his two greatest fears.

One, he never let down his guard now. He had always known he wouldn't be able to, when running from Solomon, but he had always suspected he might grow careless, simply because nobody seemed interested. Robin had taken away that danger, as now people were very obviously interested.

Two, he knew why he was running, and he knew he would never grow weary. He had feared, almost with disgust, that he would someday tire of running, simply running, without any aim or concrete purpose. Amon needed a goal, an end to set his sights on, and without it… Amon shuddered to think… without it, he might just give up, or worse, stick a gun in his mouth and end it. Amon hated the thought of such weakness, hated the idea of himself becoming such an unprincipled man, who could die in such shame. Far better to die against the witch hunters, he had said, even then.

Now that danger was gone, he told himself, eyes traveling over to the bed where Robin lay sprawled. Whatever else came up, he would always know why he was running. And that was as it should be, for there could never be any shadow where there was no flame.

* * *

**A/N: **Woot. Another one. This was supposed to be the last chapter, actually, but then that ran into something else, so I converted it. This might be the last for a while, I'm kinda out of ideas. There's maybe one more, but it needs a lot of work.

The reviews I've gotten so far are immensely helpful. Drop a note, even if it's just to say: Good job! I think I mentioned last chapter that I brought this series out of the vault mostly because so many people liked it. Like the story says, I need a reason to do what I do.


	4. Fuzzy

**Fuzzy**

Robin didn't like the beard.

It was just so ugly. It was black and bristly, and it completely hid Amon's sharp chin. It made him look completely different, like she didn't even know him.

And that, as Amon somewhat irritably reminded her, was the whole point. Growing a beard made him a little harder to recognize. If anyone saw him on the streets, the beard would be the first thing they would remember. They would never identify him with the smooth-chinned Hunter that Solomon was looking for.

Robin couldn't agree. Even if she didn't like it, the beard was hardly the most striking thing about Amon Beard or no beard, he would stand out in a crowd simply because of his height, build, and general attitude toward life.

And his eyes. No one could forget his eyes.

They were so cold, icy, she reflected, yet so obviously hiding some life beneath. To anyone just meeting him—she grinned as she thought about her own first meeting—they seemed so clear cut, so defined. But if you knew how to look, you could spot the life that sparkled beneath, a life which, strangely enough, fed that very coldness.

Everything about Amon was like that. Cold, sharp, as if cut from stone, and yet so full of mystery and (she felt) life. His eyes, his hair, his coat, his very movements were all perfect examples of restraint, control. It was not a façade. It was a physical evidence of who Amon was.

That was part of the reason why she didn't like the beard. It was… fuzzy, she decided, grimacing at the words. It was an indistinct mass among a clearly defined world. It was as if somewhere, his face had lost restraint and decided to grow hairs. Recognizing the ridiculousness of the image, she covered her mouth to suppress a giggle.

No, she didn't like the beard. And neither did Amon, she felt. She'd seen the look of distaste in his face everytime he looked in the mirror, and she'd seen the way he ran his hand over the bristles. He didn't like it either. But he considered it necessary, so he did it.

Very straightforward. Very clear-cut. Everything the beard was NOT.

Robin sighed, and Amon glanced across at her from their seat on the bus. "What's the matter?" The whiskers grunted.

Robin forced a smile. "I was thinking…" She looked down at her hands a moment. "I was thinking I should cut my hair shorter."

* * *

**A/N**: Hey, Whaddaya know! Another chapter! Review and let me know how it was!

This was a bizarre idea I was toying around. Being on the run, it's very natural that Amon would grow a beard, both for the reasons I have here, and the simple fact that he wouldn't have enough time to shave. Of course, Robin, if she's like most girls, probably wouldn't like that. So that's what it started as.

If anyone's worried (which I doubt), I should maybe say that both Amon's and Robin's changes are temporary.


	5. Disguised

**Disguised**

* * *

Amon didn't understand why she had cut her hair.

He hadn't said anything against it—goodness knew they needed enough help hiding as it was—but he didn't see the point. If anyone saw Robin, they'd remember the color of the hair, not how long it was. In all reality, cutting her hair wouldn't do an inch to disguise Robin.

Indeed, Amon was beginning to wonder if one could disguise Robin. He cast a glance at her over by the mirror. The red hair certainly made her easier to spot, but even outside of that, Robin was unmistakable. She was young and naïve and had a face that belonged anywhere except where they happened to be. Her eyes were green and clear and had a way of burning them into whoever saw them. Even sunglasses didn't really help.

Disguise was not incredibly tricky, Amon reflected, scratching his beard. Essentially it was the science of being plain. Of being forgettable. Or, failing that, of looking and behaving so unlike yourself that people remembered you, but didn't identify you with the one they were looking for. And even that alternative was dangerous. Preferably, you didn't want anyone to think about you anymore than was possible.

In Robin's case, of course, that was practically impossible.

But he had thought all this through long before. He had learned to accept it and work around it. And so, he thought, had Robin. And then suddenly she came up with the idea of cutting her hair. He supposed he should be glad that she was taking an active interest in disguising herself, but it seemed awfully pointless.

_Of course if it was pointless_, a tiny voice nagged him, _why did it bother him so much_? She had done silly little pointless things before—mending the ragged coats they wore every day, sweeping out the apartments before they left, buying a cupcake for his birthday, bargain-shopping for new clothes—but none of these had ever bothered him. (Except perhaps the birthday. That had been a little odd.) So why did this newest craze of hers annoy him so much?

Perhaps it was because he had a feeling she was doing this to please him. Robin wasn't the type to suddenly decide to cut her hair. At least—he threw another glance at her by the mirror—not in the way she was doing it. Disguise was more Amon's interest than hers.

Amon looked at the mirror again and winced.

That was another reason it bothered him, he supposed. Disguise was also supposed to look rather natural. It wasn't supposed to LOOK like a disguise, it should look like something that was just you. A different you, to be sure, but still you.

And to be completely honest, the close-cropped job Robin was hacking out of her hair looked nothing like her. It was short, choppy, pointed… ugly, put simply. Completely unnatural to anyone, but especially to Robin. Robin had a sense of smoothness, a natural flow and grace to her movements that was at completely at odds with the gelled disaster swiftly forming atop her head.

That's why her old hair had suited her so well, Amon mused. It had a flow and grace to it that fit in perfectly with her movements. It was long, even, smooth… beautiful, put simply.

Shaking his head, Amon scratched his beard. He needed to concentrate. They would be leaving tomorrow by tanker, and there were many preparations to make. What should he…

The squeak of a chair interrupted his thoughts. "I'm done." Robin announced, standing to face him. "How does it look?"

He opened his mouth to tell her the truth, to say that it looks ugly and completely unnatural and won't even help them with their disguise. But then he saw her eyes. She might be smiling, but her eyes were glimmering with tears. He even detects a few trails down her cheeks, though she's done her best to smooth those away.

She liked it less than he did. It hurt her to even ask, probably. But she did it to please him, so she asked anyway. Does he like this thing she's done to please him, or does he like what she used to be?

Amon felt a sudden kinship with men whose girlfriends ask them if they look fat in such-and-such.

"It's a new look for you."

* * *

**A/N**: Tell me if Amon's being a jerk here. I could never figure out the whole "Do I look fat in this" dilemna either.

No, I haven't updated this in a while. To be honest, there's not a lot more I can do with this story. I have a few more one-shot ideas to play around with, but it's been a while since I've seen the series and I sorta lost interest for a while. Plus, I've been busy. One of the beauties of a one-shot collection is that you can quit anytime.

Actually, I never intended a follow-up to the "Fuzzy" story, but people gave me some fun suggestions, so it kinda fermented in my brain. See what reviews can do? If people hadn't given me such fun reviews, I might not have written this, and THEN where would you be?

Speaking of which, I'm not sure if I'll post more after this or not. Like I said, I don't have a lot more ideas, and this isn't one of my more active stories. It would be fine really just to leave it here.

Hm. I'll give it some thought.


End file.
